


Curiousity

by Wolf_dog



Series: Angels and Devils [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angel John, Angels, Bottom John, Devil Sherlock, Devils, Fluff, M/M, Possessive Sherlock, Top Sherlock, True Love, WIP, Work In Progress!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 21:38:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2483327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolf_dog/pseuds/Wolf_dog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is an Angel and only 1546 years old when Sherlock Holmes is born. He is curious by nature and goes to investigate this new Devil. Instantly, he is enamored, but will he be allowed to be friends (and more?) with a Devil?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>WIP!!!!!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: First Glance

John Watson was only young when Sherlock Holmes was born – in Angel terms anyway. He was 1 546 years old; give a few months - his birthday having passed mere months beforehand. His mother always scolded John for being so reckless and curious, but he just couldn’t help it – it was part of who he was. Angels lived up in the clouds, while Devils mostly roamed the streets of the human world, causing terror and chaos, but their main home was underground – in Hell.

John, being young as he was, was curious as the other Angels despaired about the birth of another Holmes’, so, of course, he went to investigate. He pulled his brilliant white wings to his back and disguised himself as a human and went to go visit the Holmes’ mother in the human hospital. If his family knew what he was up to, he would be in big trouble. As a human, John looked around 10 years old (Angels bodies develop slowly – like human’s did - because they had the luxury too, while Devil bodies developed fast), and he faked a story that he was son of Mrs Holmes so that the nurses would let him in. When he slipped into the room, Mrs Holmes was lying in bed, her sleeping child in her arms as Mr Holmes and their other son – Mycroft, John recalled his name to be – were standing and watching from the other side of the bed. All of them looked up, and two pairs of sharp blue eyes flashed over to him, and one a warm brown colour.

“What are you doing here?” Mr Holmes demanded, authority in his voice as he straightened to his full height, glaring at John.

John’s eyes widened, and he held up his hands in a gesture hoping to calm down the sudden tension. “I-I just wanted to see the baby,” he stammered, feeling his wings tremble under his clothes.

Mycroft and Mr Holmes’ eyes narrowed suspiciously, but Mrs Holmes smiled at him. “It’s alright dear,” she said, turning to her husband. Then, she gestured John forward, “Come on, then, but be quiet, he just went to sleep.”

Creeping forward quietly, aware that he was being watched intently, he peered over the side of the bed and his eyes widened again. “He’s _gorgeous_ ,” John breathed, looking up at Mrs Holmes with a smile.

She smiled down at him, smoothing down her child’s already curly black hair, and he gave a soft gurgle. “He is,” she agreed, love clear in her voice. John wished that his parents would speak to him like that. His parents spent most of their time worrying, or working, so he was usually by himself.

“What’s his name?” John asked curiously.

“Sherlock,” she told him, tilting her head to the side as she watched John. “You’re John Watson, aren’t you?” she asked him, his voice soft.

John nodded, tearing his gaze from the baby to her.

“Watson,” he heard the murmur from behind him, and turned curiously to see that it was Mr Holmes.

His gaze sharpened as he took in John, and John blinked. Why was his name important? Shrugging it off, he looked back to the baby, blinking as he found that he was awake and staring at John with the most gorgeous eyes John was sure he would ever see. They were a curious mix of silver and blue, and suited him well. He stared at John quietly, and John could feel a sense of anticipation in the room. For several moments, Sherlock stared at him, then gave a happy gurgle, a small smile on his round face as his wings fluttered against his tiny back.

“Would you like to hold him?” Mrs Holmes asked, her warm brown gaze kind.

“Can I?” John asked hesitantly, looking back at Mr Holmes and Mycroft, Mr Holmes gave a faint smile and nodded.

Grinning excitedly, John looked back up to Mrs Holmes, and she gently held out Sherlock, and John took him carefully into his arms, cradling him close to his chest. Sherlock stared up at him with his big eyes, just watching John, and John smiled softly down at him. There was just something about him, something that called to John, and he wanted to stay with Sherlock. Looking up at the clock on the wall, he frowned. He needed to get back, or he was going to be noticed. “I should be going,” he said reluctantly, looking up from Sherlock’s sweet face to see that Mrs and Mr Holmes were in some sort of silent debate.

Mrs Holmes looked at him and gave a nod at her husband and then smiled at him. “Of course,” she said, gently taking Sherlock from him.

Sherlock gave a frown, and his eyes watered as he looked up at his mother and began to cry. Mrs Holmes shot a look at her husband that looked a lot like ‘I told you so’. John stared at Sherlock helplessly.

“Wait!” he said, and reached under his shirt and winced slightly as he pulled out a long, white, soft feather. “Here,” he said, holding it out.

Mrs Holmes took it with a smile, giving it to her baby, who immediately quietened, grasping it in his chubby hands and clutched it close to him. John smiled at Sherlock before starting to back away. “I really should be going,” he whispered, not wanting Sherlock to be upset again.

Just as he was about to slip out the door, Mrs Holmes called out, “John! Wait!”

Turning, curious, he waited. “How would you feel about being Sherlock’s friend?” she asked, looking down at the baby clutching the white feather.

“Really?” he asked, excited. “I would love to!” then, he hesitated. “But… I’m not sure my parents would like that…”

Mrs Holmes gave a smile. “I’m sure they don’t have to know,” she said softly.

John bit his lip, debating, feeling four eyes watching him, one small and pleading, the rest just watching and waiting. Finally, he took in a deep breath. “Sure,” he said, still slightly hesitant.

Mrs Holmes grinned. “Perfect. We’ll send you a note as to where you and him can meet so that no-one will be able to see you,” she said. “Mycroft will come along too.”

John nodded enthusiastically. He wasn’t sure why he was so excited – after all, they could be in a lot of trouble if they were caught – but he pushed it aside. “I’ll be waiting!” he called as he left the room and shut the door quietly and ran down the hallways, and outside. He ran for a while, until he was sure he wouldn’t be seen, and took off his shirt, spreading his wings and taking flight. He was so excited!


	2. Meet

It was months after Sherlock was born until John received a note. Anonymous, of course, but John only had to read it for him to know what it was. Coordinates, and he knew exactly who had sent it – there was a little ‘H’ at the bottom of the paper. He was so excited, and had shot out from his home, and ran along the clouds, extending his wings, a shirt in hand as he dove through the clouds, looking at the paper for a brief moment before following them exactly, coming to land in the middle of a forest, in a clearing. It would have been hard to find, if he hadn’t had the coordinates, and it was a good spot. As his feet touched the ground, he tucked in his wings, not putting on his shirt just yet, and noticed how soft the ground was. Perfect. He went around while he waited and picked up all the sticks and sharp objects on the ground, chucking them out of the clearing.

By the time that was done, Mycroft appeared in the sky, a small boy beside him, flapping determinedly. John watched and waited with a smile on his face, anticipation rising in him. As they landed, John’s eyes widened. Sherlock already had the body of a five year old! Sherlock looked up at Mycroft, who gave a smile and a nod, and then he walked slowly over to John, cautious. John sat down on the ground so that he wouldn’t appear so big, and slowly wrapped his wings around himself, hiding from sight.

Sherlock gave a soft giggle, and John lifted one wing to smile at him, before placing a finger to his lips and lowering his wings again. “I’m hiding,” John whispered loudly.

He felt soft hands touch his wings, and felt a shiver run through him. Nobody had ever touched his wings before – not even his parents – but it didn’t feel bad. He could feel Sherlock pressing slightly on his wings, trying to peer over them, and John chuckled. He slowly opened his wings, and Sherlock fell forward with a soft cry. John caught him, gently placing him on his knee so that they could both see each other. Sherlock had a curly mop of black hair, that looked absolutely adorable, and he still had the same eyes, except they were trusting as they looked at John, and he had pale skin, and a lanky body.

“I’m John,” he introduced himself, and Sherlock smiled, producing a white feather from his pocket, and held it up to John’s wings to compare them. Everyone’s wings were different, and John’s wings were rounded, and so were his feathers, like a really fat oval, and his held a touch of silver at the tips, making them shine in sunlight.

“I’m Sherlock,” Sherlock declared proudly, cuddling the feather to his chest, making John smile, his heart swelling with an unknown emotion.

 “Let’s do something!” John exclaimed, standing up, taking Sherlock’s hands in his own to pull him up too.

“What?’ Sherlock asked excitedly.

John looked around for something that they could do, but was apparently too slow as Sherlock suddenly declared, “Let’s make pencils for each other!”

John blinked, and then grinned. “Yeah!”

Sherlock beamed up at him, wings flapping proudly, and then they raced off, collecting twigs and nuts and whatever else they wanted to add to their pencils.

They sat down, side-by-side, and worked on them. John lay his stick down flat on the grass, and plucked out grass stems, winding them around the stick, and placed a nut on top, and then brought his wings around and plucked out two of the smallest ones (soft and only ten centimetres long) and placed them so that the stems were touching the nut. “What colour do you want it?” he asked Sherlock, turning to him.

Sherlock looked at him in thought. “White. Like your wings,” he told John with a shy smile.

Closing his eyes, he wrapped himself in the cocoon of his wings, and placed his hands above his stick, closing his eyes and breathing deeply as he concentrated, conjuring up the energy within him, which then came shooting out his hands in a wash of light, as he focussed on the image on his head. Opening his eyes, he smiled, picking up the pencil. It was a brilliant white like his wings, the end light silver near the lead part, and the grass had been transformed into a gorgeous green, over-lapping pattern on the white. The nut at the top had become a grey bell, the feathers dangling off of it. In the middle on one side, it was inscribed with black writing ‘To SH from JW’.

Folding his wings away, he smiled at Sherlock, only to find him wrapped up in his wings too. Excitement coursed through him as he waited. Finally, Sherlock folded his wings away and grinned at John, and they both held out their pencils for the other.

The pencil Sherlock made for John was black, and he had made deep blue rivers through the black, and had attached two of his feathers to the top as well, and it had a pure white inscription that read, ‘To JW from SH’.  John smiled, gently taking the pencil as Sherlock took his.

“Perfect,” they both breathed, and then laughed.

“I’ll keep it forever,” John promised, and Sherlock nodded.

“Me too,” he agreed.

John and Sherlock were best friends for nearly a hundred years, before they were discovered. John had tried his best to be careful, but they couldn’t prevent everything. They made each other’s presents by hand, and each one was unique. Sherlock grew smarter and smarter, and he was a genius, but John knew he was the only one Sherlock was so open with. He told John things that he swore he’d never told anyone else, and John told Sherlock secrets that he’d never told anyone else.

But, then, one day, John was confronted by his parents.

“This can’t continue,” his mother told him sternly, her expression stony.

“I-I don’t know what you mean,” John stammered, all too aware of Sherlock’s pencil in his pocket.

“Don’t lie!” his father growled, making him flinch.

Harry watched silently from a distance, her expression closed off. No-one was going to help him.

“You can’t see Sherlock _Holmes_ ,” his father spat the word ‘Holmes’ like it was poison, “any more. We’ve been very patient with you, John, but this can’t continue.”

John’s heart dropped in dread. “But-but we’re _friends!_ ” he said desperately.

“Not anymore,” his mother said coldly. “An Angel can never be friends with a Devil.”

John kept quiet, heart racing with fear. As his silence stretched, his father gave him a choice. “You either stop being friends with him, or we will go after _him_.”

“No!” John cried, feeling tears sting his eyes, but he blinked them away furiously. He couldn’t let them hurt Sherlock. He bit his lip. “Alright. I’ll go tell him,” he said, his voice wavering.

His father looked like he was about to protest, but Harry stepped in. “I’ll go with him,” she said, barely giving John a glance.

So, they set off in silence, John trying to control his breathing. Sherlock was turning a hundred in two days. He already had Sherlock’s present, but he supposed he couldn’t give it to him now. He’d spent _months_ on it. He’d _promised_ Sherlock that he had the best present for him. He couldn’t go back on that promise. He’d made him a friendship bracelet, handmade (no magic this time) with brown and black and white and silver threads – the colours of their wings.

As they touched down in front of the Holmes’ mansion, it started to rain. At least that might hide his tears. Taking in a deep breath, he knocked on the door, half-hoping that there was no-one home.

There was silence for a few moments, before Mrs Holmes appeared, and she smiled at John –who now looked like a 20 year old -, before she noticed Harry behind him. “Oh, dear,” she murmured, hardly audible.

“Is-is Sherlock home?” he asked, his voice wavering.

She nodded. “He’s in his room. I’ll go get him for you,” she said, and turned and left quickly, leaving John in the rain, pulling his wings to his back.

Sherlock (who now looked seventeen) appeared, a grin on his face, “John!” he called happily, but his expression froze as he saw John’s face, and then noticed Harry. “What-what’s going on?” he asked, slightly less sure of himself.

John looked behind him, to Harry, who gave him a firm glare.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he said, his voice wavering. He didn’t want to do this. He’d figured out his emotions for Sherlock over the years. He _loved_ him. He really didn’t want to do this. Sherlock was so young. He’d forget him.

“Sorry for what?” Sherlock asked, his voice small as his eyes searched John’s face frantically, meeting his gaze for a moment before John looked to the side.

“We can’t be friends anymore,” John told him, looking up at him, blinking furiously to try and not cry.

“No!” Sherlock cried out, face desperate. “Please, John,” he begged.

John bit his lip, and took in a deep breath. “I’m really, really sorry, Sherlock. But we just _can’t_. Please don’t try and find me again,” he said and, before he could crumple to the ground, turned and took off to the sky, tears dripping freely down his face, feeling as if his heart had just been torn out.

“JOHN!” Sherlock called out after him, more a wail than anything, and John glanced back just once to see Sherlock with his arms outstretched towards him, and then his parents coming and taking him away and the door closing.

John flew as fast as he could, sniffling. This wasn’t _fair_! He would always remember Sherlock, but Sherlock would forget him by the time another hundred years had passed, if not before that.

“You made the right choice, John,” Harry said from beside him, and he glared at her.

“You don’t _understand_! He’s my _best friend_! You would never understand that,” he shot at her angrily, pulling away from beside her and flying up, to some distant cloud, and his sister left him alone to cry.


	3. Second (Re)Meet

-A thousand years later-

John was now 2 646 years old and looked around in his early 40’s. Every year, he gave Sherlock a present; he left it on Sherlock’s bed, right in the middle while Sherlock was downstairs unwrapping all his other ones. After the first fifty years, Sherlock stopped asking who left them, and seemed to have completely forgotten him. It hurt, but it was better this way, John knew. It was so much better than Sherlock being hurt because of him.

Today, John was in the clearing – _their_ clearing. Nobody else came here, that he knew of anyway. It was on the edge of Angel land, and he knew it was dangerous to be here now, but he didn’t care. Today was the anniversary of the day he had broken away from Sherlock. Every year, he came here and just remembered. His family had stopped keeping an eye on him now, and he hated them. All of them. His sister, his mother and his father. They didn’t deserve his love. He’d moved out of home, and moved as far away as possible from them, while still being near this place.

Sighing, he lay down in the middle of the clearing, resting his head on his folded arms, lying on his back and closing his eyes to enjoy the sunshine – so rare for London. He had watched Sherlock, from the safety of his clouds, over the years that had passed. Sherlock had become one of the most feared and ruthless Devil’s known – very close to exceeding that of his father, and John wished the young boy that was his friend would come back. Sherlock had been so sweet. He supposed he could be blamed for that.

A darkness blotted out the sun, and John sighed. A cloud, perfect, he thought sarcastically. He really liked the sunshine. Wait. It wasn’t passing over. In fact… It was getting denser…

Eyes shooting open, he had a split-second to recognise something was hurtling towards him, and rolled to the side quickly, and stood, jumping backwards out of reach. The figure landed, and John recognised those wings. They were strong, and sleek, but black with brown around the edges. Oh, oh this was not good. At all. John took a quick glance around. He knew he had absolutely no chance of out-flying Sherlock (they had used to race when they were younger, and Sherlock always won by literally miles). This was so bad. If Sherlock didn’t remember him, he might attack John, and John knew he would never hurt Sherlock – or, any more than he already had.

Sherlock ruffled his wings powerfully, and straightened, turning and glaring fiercely at John. Oh, goodness. He had gotten even more handsome since he had seen him last. He was still pale, and his eyes were the same blue-silver colour as they had always been, but now they were more cold, like there was a wall there, separating his emotions from everything else. He was wearing a suit, a white dress shirt with a black jacket and black slacks and they looked damn _sexy_ on his long, lean figure, and it looked like he was in his mid-30’s.

Now was really not the time to be thinking about this, John scolded himself frantically, his wings twitching. He should leave. He _needed_ to leave. What if he was caught with Sherlock?

Sherlock was stalking slowly towards him. “What are you doing here, _Angel_?” Sherlock spat the word ‘Angel’, his tone cold.

So, he didn’t remember John. He wasn’t surprised, but it still hurt. John’s eyes flicked around desperately. “I-I was just leaving, actually,” John said, pointing upwards and shrugging, trying to appear casual.

Sherlock’s eyes sharpened. “Now, what’s the rush?” Sherlock asked smoothly, his voice changing suddenly into that of a low purr.

John was trapped. He knew exactly what Sherlock was doing, and he knew how this ended for him. He’d seen Sherlock do this before. Sherlock would try to seduce him, and if that worked, he would kill John, and if it didn’t work, he’d let John leave, and then enjoy the thrill of the chase and then he would kill John. Either way, John was one dead Angel.

Not so good. There was another set of wings suddenly, and John felt his heart sink further. Another one? He turned and immediately recognised Mycroft, except he looked older, and more professional.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Mycroft said, frowning.

“You know this Angel?” Sherlock demanded.

“I know. I-I was just leaving,” he said, unsure of who he wanted to turn his back to, so he turned sideways so he could see both of the brothers.

His heart was pounding hard in his chest, and his blood roaring in his ears, as he pleaded with Mycroft with his eyes. Mycroft held his gaze for a few moments, and then slowly shook his head. Mycroft would not help him.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock demanded.

“No. I don’t know him,” he told Sherlock, glancing at John.

John closed his eyes in acceptance, taking a deep breath. He supposed he deserved this. After all, he had promised to take care of Sherlock for Mycroft, and then he had left. But he hadn’t broken his promise. He _had_ been taking care of Sherlock, just from afar.

He opened his eyes slowly and watched as Mycroft took off. He looked back at Sherlock, resigned.

“Do I know you?” Sherlock asked slowly, frowning as he advanced on him.

John’s heart twisted. He wanted desperately to say yes, but that would be unfair for Sherlock. He took in another deep breath and let it out slowly. He shook his head. “No,” he told Sherlock, not meeting his gaze. Sherlock _didn’t_ know him. Not anymore.

Sherlock was still walking towards him. “Do _you_ know me?” he asked, eyes sharp.

How was he meant to get out of this one? Ah. “Everyone knows you,” he answered Sherlock, not liking how close Sherlock was getting. He wished he could trust Sherlock to not to try and kill him.

Sherlock snorted, rolling his eyes. “Yes, but do you _know_ me?” Sherlock repeated, his intense gaze focussed on John.

“No.” Lie. Well, sort of. He _used_ to know Sherlock. He wasn’t so sure anymore.

Sherlock frowned. “You’re lying,” he said after a moment. “Why would you lie?” He sounded genuinely confused.

John sighed. “That doesn’t matter. Are you going to kill me or not?” he asked, fighting hard to keep his voice even.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side. “It does matter,” he pressed, and he sounded so much like the Sherlock he knew, that he couldn’t suppress his smile, causing Sherlock to stop where he was. He watched John for a moment, before shaking his head. “And, no, I’m not going to kill you. You seem interesting.”

John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock had told him he was many things, but he’d never said ‘interesting’. That was a new one.

“You _do_ know me, don’t you?” Sherlock pressed.

“I-“ John forgot what he was about to say as his eyes found something poking out of Sherlock’s pocket. His mouth went dry. “What’s that?” he asked, voice shaking slightly as he pointed to it.

“Hmm?” Sherlock asked, and looked down at his pocket, and pulled it out.

John took a step back out of shock. It was the pencil he had made for Sherlock. “May I?” he asked softly, looking up at Sherlock.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment before holding it out. John walked over, and gently took it out of Sherlock’s hand, holding it up to the light for a moment and smiling. The inscription was still there. Sherlock just didn’t know who ‘JW’ was anymore. It was still in perfect shape, and John knew for a fact that the colour would never fade, and the inscription would stay forever. He still carried the one Sherlock had made for him in his pocket of his pants, and he could suddenly feel its weight clearly.

Then, John pushed it back towards Sherlock suddenly. He shouldn’t be here. Sherlock took it with a frown, looking up at John, but he was already backing away. “Wait!” Sherlock called. “How do you know this?”

John just shook his head mutely and suddenly took off, flying away as fast as he could. He needed to stay away from Sherlock. He couldn’t risk Sherlock getting hurt. He just couldn’t.

Unfortunately, Sherlock was flying after him, and when John looked back, he had a determined look on his face. This was not good. At all.

“Just leave me alone,” John pleaded, not slowing.

“Not until I get my answers,” Sherlock growled, and then shot in front of John, and John swerved under him, continuing on, his heart racing.

“You don’t understand!” John called. “I _can’t_ , alright? So just leave me be!”

“Why?” Sherlock demanded, shooting in front of him once more and stopping all his attempts to escape by grabbing John’s wrist in a tight grip.

“Look, Sherlock, _please_ , it’s for the best!” John tried to persuade him, his chest heaving as his eyes flickered around.

Sherlock looked at him suddenly, then his eyes flickered to John’s wings and he frowned, reaching out with his other hand and touching them gently. “I know these wings,” Sherlock murmured to himself.

“There-there are plenty of wings like mine,” John bluffed, flicking his wing away from Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock shook his head slowly. “No. I know _these_ wings. I-I remember feeling them before,” Sherlock said, his voice soft. “Who _are_ you?” Sherlock demanded sharply, his eyes fixing on John’s face, his grip tightening on his wrist.

John looked to the side, not answering. He saw Sherlock look around, and then, before John could protest, suddenly pressed him to his chest and dove downwards.

 “No! Let me go!” John demanded frantically, struggling, but that just caused Sherlock to growl and tighten his grip.

“You aren’t going _anywhere_ until I get my answers,” Sherlock snarled, and squished John to his chest, who reluctantly folded his wings to his back.


	4. Falling

This was really not good. This was, in fact, bad. _Extremely_ bad. He could feel Sherlock’s sharp gaze on his face from where the Devil stood at the entrance to the cave he had shoved John into. John didn’t even know where they were, just that it was way outside where any Angel could see and hopefully help him. He really shouldn’t be here. Not with Sherlock.

“You can’t keep me here forever,” John snapped, fighting down panic. What if someone happened to see, and then his family came after Sherlock?

He’d promised to always protect Sherlock, and he wouldn’t be able to bear it if he was the cause of Sherlock getting harmed.

“Why are you so worried? I told you I wouldn’t kill you, and there’s no one who can see us – that _was_ what you were worried about earlier, wasn’t it?” Sherlock said, sounding genuinely perplexed.

John whirled around, wings flaring, to face Sherlock, panic making him sound angry – and he should be angry, furious even! “It’s not that simple! You – _ugh_! You don’t _understand_ , alright? You _can’t!_ ” he shouted at Sherlock, his eyes blazing.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side. “You really _do_ know me,” Sherlock said softly, looking the picture of calm. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be so comfortable in yelling at me. You know my reputation, I suppose – everyone does,” Sherlock took a breath, and John jumped in.

“Your _reputation_ ,” he sneered the word, “isn’t something to be proud of!”

What had happened to the Sherlock he knew? The sweet little boy? He was long gone, and John’s fight suddenly left him at the thought, sitting down suddenly. He suddenly felt far much older than he was. It just wasn’t _fair_. He still loved Sherlock, and he always would, but they could never be together. This Sherlock, the Sherlock of now, was strong and ruthless and showed no emotions.

Sherlock’s hum reached his ears, but he stayed in his slumped, defeated position. He could hear Sherlock making his way over to him, and looked up with a sigh. His wings twitched as Sherlock drew closer, and Sherlock crouched down in front of John, and produced something from his pocket. John drew in a sharp breath. It was his feather. The one he had given Sherlock when the Devil was born.

Sherlock simply held it for a moment before comparing it to John’s wings. His gaze turned to John, eyes sharp. “Why did you lie?” he demanded.

John’s wings shuddered at the amount of emotion John was feeling. He didn’t answer Sherlock, dropping his gaze to the floor. He knew Sherlock could wait forever until John answered, so, heaving a sigh, John did.

“You won’t remember me,” John said in a soft voice, not looking up. “But, perhaps, you will remember this.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the pencil Sherlock had made for him. He held it gently, before looking up and holding it out to Sherlock.

Sherlock was frowning in confusion, and he gently took the pencil, gazing at it, before his eyes widened, and John knew he had finally remembered. Sherlock stroked the pencil reverently. “I remember making this,” Sherlock said in a soft whisper, hardly audible.

Sherlock pulled out the white pencil John had made for him. “You’re JW,” Sherlock murmured, looking up at John, who gave him a sad smile. “We were best friends,” Sherlock remembered, and John held his breath, waiting. Sherlock’s sharp eyes flashed up at him, hardening. “You left me!” he accused angrily, shoving the pencil back at John. “Why? Why would you do that?”

Sherlock was finally sounding like the Sherlock John knew again, but John couldn’t help but flinch at the hurt tone in his voice. “I had to,” John murmured, gently stroking the pencil.

“Why?” Sherlock demanded sharply.

“Because they were going to hurt you if I didn’t!” John said loudly, frustrated, before taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “If I didn’t stop seeing you, they were going to go after you and hurt you. I couldn’t – can’t – let that happen, Sherlock, okay? I just _can’t_.”

Sherlock watched John’s pained expression, and the Devil’s expression softened as he saw the clear desperation on John’s face. He placed a hand gently on John’s left wing, gently stroking the feathers, making John’s wings shiver. “It’s alright, John. I won’t let them harm either of us,” Sherlock murmured, and John stared up into his familiar face.

John sighed. “It’s too much of a risk,” John told Sherlock, looking to the side.

Sherlock’s hand grasped his chin, and turned him back to meet his intense gaze. “That didn’t stop you before,” he pointed out.

John struggled. He wanted _so badly_ to be with Sherlock again, but he didn’t want to risk them getting caught and becoming Fallen. He met Sherlock’s stare and just sat there and lost himself in that intense gaze.

He didn’t know how long they sat there, but when he re-emerged from both his thoughts and Sherlock’s stare, he licked his lips and gave a nod. “Alright,” he said, giving Sherlock a smile, which was returned by a breath-taking one from the handsome Devil – _his_ handsome Devil. “But we have to be careful.”

Sherlock nodded immediately, his grin never faltering. “We can meet here. No one ever comes here,” Sherlock told him happily, and, finally, the wall that had been blocking his emotions from other was finally falling down.

“I don’t even know where _here_ is,” John chuckled, his own happiness combined with Sherlock’s making him feel slightly giddy from it.

Sherlock’s grin just brightened. “I’m not surprised. It’s way outside Angel territory – we’re on the very border of Earth and Hell,” Sherlock told him.

John’s eyebrows went up. He’d never been this close to Hell before. John realised that Sherlock was still gently stroking his wings, but John found that he didn’t mind. Not a bit.

John had been reluctant to leave at the end of the day, but he knew he had to. Sherlock had been reluctant to let him leave, finally having his best friend back that he hadn’t even remembered until today. He had satisfied Sherlock by promising that he would be back in two days’ time – because coming here every day would just be suspicious.

As promised, the sun was still rising, shedding gentle light over the world as John took flight from his cloud and flew leisurely to the cave, humming happily to himself. There was no rush. He doubted Sherlock would be there yet – the only reason he was up was because of the sun, hitting his cloud and warming it up pleasantly.

He touched down lightly on the cave, and shook out his wings, smiling, before folding them in to his back, and looking around. His smile slipped as he saw a figure curled on the ground, wings obscuring it from sight. John frowned, glancing around before walking closer and crouching on the ground next to the figure. He peered closely at the wings, and was relieved to recognise Sherlock’s wings. He gently stroked them, and Sherlock gave a grumble, wings flicking his hand away. John gave a soft chuckle, and returned his hands, gently tickling Sherlock’s feathers. Sherlock gave a sleepy snarl and something that sounded suspiciously like, “Fuck off.”

John raised an eyebrow. He didn’t know that Sherlock swore. “Sherlock,” John whispered insistently, stroking Sherlock’s wings slightly harder, trying to rouse the Devil.

Sherlock gave a little whimper, “Five more minutes, John.”

John sighed, and lay down next to Sherlock on the ground, and one of Sherlock’s wings stretched out and wrapped around the Angel, pulling him in close to his Devil’s side. Sherlock gave a happy, sleepy murmur, and immediately fell back asleep.

John stayed awake for a little while, just revelling in the comforting feel of being pressed to Sherlock’s side, and the warmth of Sherlock’s wing resting above him.

Giving a soft sigh, John closed his eyes and let sleep take him.

“John.” The soft murmur roused John instantly, and he blinked his eyes rapidly, and the first thing he saw was Sherlock’s face next to him, happy and open.

“You told me to fuck off,” John murmured with amusement, yawning and stretching out.

Sherlock blinked. “Did I?” he asked curiously.

“Mmm.”

“When did I do that?” Sherlock queried.

“When I was trying to wake you up,” John told with, chuckling softly.

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed. “Interesting,” Sherlock murmured to himself.

“What is?” John asked, not wanting to move from the comfort and safety of Sherlock’s wing.

“I usually wake instantly when someone is near,” Sherlock told him, watching John intensely.

John shrugged and gave a smile. “Maybe I’m just special,” he said, teasing slightly.

Sherlock gave a chuckle. “Perhaps.”

John was content to just stay like this, tucked under Sherlock’s wing, feeling safe. He knew no one could see him with Sherlock’s wing around him, and he felt protected. Sherlock was watching him, and he remembered that he was the older of them, and he shifted his wings slightly, moving to back away from Sherlock and out of the comfort of his wings. Sherlock’s wings tightened around him, pulling him even closer to Sherlock’s body. John flushed, but shook his head and backed out. It was too dangerous to get any further into this than he already was.

Sherlock gave a frown but released him. John rolled away and sat up, stretching out his wings, and ruffling them. Sherlock watched him, and sat up as well, slowly.

Later, a few months after, Sherlock scowled at him as John once again pulled away from under his wings. John felt bad, but he knew that he couldn’t get that close. It was too much of a risk.

“Why do you keep doing that?” Sherlock snapped, sitting up, his wings giving a short flap of anger, washing air over John.

John stared back at him, unfazed. “Because just going _this_ ,” he waved a hand to gesture to the cave, “is enough of a risk.”

Sherlock gave a short growl. “You think that I’d let something bad happen to you?” Sherlock demanded, his eyes narrowing.

“Not even you can stop everything,” John shot back. Like Falling, a small voice in his head helpfully pointed out.

Sherlock stood, glaring down at John for a few moments before he turned and shot out from the cave, his wings flapping strongly. John watched him, deflating and sighing. He really hadn’t changed that much. He still acted like a 100 year old sometimes.

John sighed and leant back against the cave wall, and looked around the cave. It looked so much bigger without Sherlock in it, and John suddenly felt lonely. He closed his eyes and let his wings curl out around him. He knew he should go back to the safety of his clouds, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. What if Sherlock came back? Unlikely.

After an indeterminable stretch of time, John opened his eyes and flexed his wings. He should get going.

He stood and flexed out his wings again. Something caught his eye, and he turned with a slight frown and examined his wings. With a feeling of slight panic, he noticed that the silver from the tips of his wings was slightly darker, and was expanding upwards. He was becoming a Fallen. The more time he spent with Sherlock, the more he knew his wings would slowly start to turn pure black.


	5. The Homes' Mansion

John spent the next few weeks examining his wings. The silver on his wings slowly started to turn to grey, just a few centimetres up from the tip. It was hardly anything, hardly anything anyone would notice, but to John, it was blatantly obvious. He became self-conscious about his wings. He only saw Sherlock once in those few weeks, and while he was away from Sherlock, the change in his wings stopped.

Finally, John knew he had to tell Sherlock – damn the consequences, he was Falling anyway! – so he took off from his cloud, and took deep breaths to calm himself as he flew to the Holmes’ mansion. He hadn’t been here for a reason for Sherlock to see him for over a thousand years. He had an uncomfortable sensation in his gut the closer he got to the mansion.

He knew by heart which window was Sherlock’s, and he wasn’t surprised to see it open – that must have been how Sherlock got back in. He dived in through Sherlock’s window, he looked around briefly. He couldn’t see Sherlock, and turned around, eyes sweeping over the room.

Then, the door opened, and Sherlock appeared, and his eyes locked onto John before he shut the door swiftly and suddenly John was being pressed up against the wall. “What are you doing here?” he hissed, eyes narrowed.

“I need to talk to you.”

Sherlock gave a snort. “Can’t whatever it is wait?” Sherlock demanded. “What if Mycroft had come in here and seen you? Or my father?!”

John gave a snort. “They wouldn’t harm me,” he told Sherlock, then paused a moment, “Much, anyway.” Before, a thousand years before, they would never have harmed John, but now he wasn’t so sure. But, he was getting off track. “I came here for a reason, and I’m not leaving until I talk to you about this!”

Sherlock gave a short growl of discontent. Even as a child, Sherlock had always thought of the dangers _John_ could get into by doing something, and was protective of the Angel. With a pang of affection, John recalled briefly on those decades they had spent together.

“Well?” Sherlock snapped, and John’s lips twitched before he extended his wings and curled them slightly so that Sherlock could easily see their full length.

Sherlock frowned, and glanced at his wings, before back at John. “What?”

John gave an irritated sigh. “Look closely!” he demanded.

The Devil rolled his eyes and released John and peered closely at John’s wings.

“I don’t see what I’m meant to be looking at,” Sherlock told him, sounding irritated.

John wasn’t sure whether he was irritated that he thought John might be wasting his time and taking an unnecessary risk, or that he didn’t know what John was trying to tell him. “Where do you keep the feather I gave you?” he asked. When Sherlock gave him a blank look, he prompted, “The one I gave you when you were born? I highly doubt you’ve gotten rid of it.”

Sherlock’s expression cleared, and he moved away silently, going to his bed and slipping a hand under his pillow, retrieving the white with silver-tipped feather. He wordlessly gave it over to John, and John felt humbled by the fact that Sherlock had kept it under his pillow all these years – even though he couldn’t remember who it was from and had turned into a ruthless Devil.

John took it with a small smile and plucked another of his feathers, roughly the same size, and handed them both over to Sherlock. “Now. Tell me what you see now,” he instructed, heart pounding slightly faster.

Sherlock examined the feathers with close scrutiny, and then his brow furrowed and looked back up at John, expression worried and shocked. “You’re Falling,” he stated, voice blank.

John nodded, and retracted his wings. “I’ve been monitoring it,” he admitted. “The longer period I am around you, than the faster it develops, but when I’m away from you, it slows.”

Sherlock started to pace. “It makes sense now!” he was muttering to himself. “Why you were distant,” he said, directing his words at John now, but not looking up from where his gaze was focussed on the two feathers. “Why you spent less time with me. Why you kept your wings folded unless it was absolutely necessary. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Sherlock suddenly rounded on him, looming above him.

John blinked. “I wasn’t sure,” he said slowly, making and keeping eye-contact with his Devil, “how you would react.”

Sherlock snorted, and then his face softened, and he sighed, wrapping his arms around John and slumping into him. “You should have told me sooner. You’re _my_ Fallen now, John. We need to discuss this,” he mumbled into John’s neck, where his face was buried.

John wrapped his arms around the comforting weight of Sherlock pressing against him, and closed his eyes, gently inhaling the smell of his Devil. _His_. Just like he was Sherlock’s. “Alright, yeah,” John mumbled, not wanting to move from this position.

It felt natural for him to be bare-chested, and for Sherlock to be so as well. It was much easier to for them to fly away and not have to worry about breaking a shirt or jumper. Quick escape. John felt Sherlock start to guide him backwards, and John didn’t bother to open his eyes, knowing that Sherlock wouldn’t let him fall or trip.

John suddenly felt exhausted and, as Sherlock gently lowered him onto the soft bed (really, it was almost as soft as the cloud he slept on) he knew that it was mental exhaustion, and not physical exhaustion that made him feel this way. Sherlock lay down next to him, and John comfortably snuggled into his side, and smiled at the feel of Sherlock’s soft wings brushing over his skin. He knew for a fact that Sherlock was covering him completely from anyone else’s eyes, and, if anyone walked into the room, all they would see was Sherlock. John gave a smile at the protectiveness his Devil – _his_ – exuded. 

He stared up at Sherlock, one of his hands resting against the pale skin of Sherlock’s chest, the other resting lightly on the Devil’s clothed hip. Sherlock was quietly watching John, an unreadable expression on his face. Having known Sherlock for most of the Devil’s life, he knew most of the expressions Sherlock pulled, it was a surprise that he couldn’t tell what Sherlock was feeling. He frowned for a moment, searching Sherlock’s face for any clue as to what he was feeling.

Finally, Sherlock gave a small smile, and bent his head, pressing a tender kiss to John’s forehead. “Sleep, John,” he urged gently, “I’ll wake you when you need to leave.”

John hummed softly, his frown easing. He was still mostly unsure about Sherlock’s reaction to him Falling, but he knew that Sherlock would protect him and wouldn’t harm him, and that was all that John needed to know for now.

For an Angel to fall in love with a Devil was treason of the highest order, and for a Devil to fall in love with an Angel. With a pang, John realised that Sherlock probably wasn’t Falling, and that meant tha the wasn’t in love with John. Sure, he loved John, but he wasn’t _in_ love with him.

Sighing, John closed his eyes and nestled close to Sherlock. It would be okay, he assured himself. Even if Sherlock wasn’t in love with him, John would still spend as much time as possible with him. Maybe he was naïve in his views, but he believed that it didn’t truly matter if Sherlock wasn’t in love with John, John would continue loving Sherlock and everything would be okay.

Sherlock started humming softly, and long gentle fingers stroked over John’s wings. Giving a content trill, John relaxed almost completely, his body complete jelly and in Sherlock’s complete control. Sherlock’s chest was vibrating gently under John’s chest, and he could hear Sherlock’s soothing, steady heartbeat. The perfect melody to send him to sleep.

When John woke, he felt fully rested and energised. Opening his eyes slowly, John yawned and moved to stretch, but couldn’t. He was encased and unable to move. It was pitch-black and John panicked for a moment before he realised that he was merely enclosed in Sherlock’s dark wings and his face was pressed into Sherlock’s chest.

John listened for a moment to Sherlock’s heartbeat, and realised that Sherlock was asleep. Smiling fondly, John stayed still for a moment before he started squirming, needing to pee.

Sherlock’s arms and wings tightened around him, giving him a sleepy snarl. “Stay,” Sherlock demanded, his voice rough, but he was clearly still asleep.

John stilled and waited for Sherlock to relax before he slowly and painfully pulled himself from Sherlock’s (incredibly strong) grip. Finally, he was free and he breathed a sigh of relief.

“I’ll be right back,” John promised in a whisper, a fond smile tugging on his lips.

John bent over Sherlock and brushed a curl from his face and planted a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead.

Now he really, _really_ needed to pee. John had been a frequent visitor to Sherlock’s house when they were young, and he could only hope that the layout was still the same. It had taken him an entire week to memorise every part of Sherlock’s house, because it was just so incredibly confusing!

Slipping quietly out of Sherlock’s room, John made his way towards where the bathroom hopefully still was.

As he was reaching for the doorhandle, the door opened and revealed Mycroft. For a second, Mycroft looked as stunned as John felt, and then his expression closed and became cold.

John was frozen with surprise and slight fear. Damn. He hadn’t been thinking and had forgotten to check if there was anyone here.

“John,” Mycroft said coldly, “What are you doing here?”


End file.
